


the eyes have it

by rhysgore



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, Eye Trauma, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Skullfucking, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Under-negotiated Kink, Unhealthy Relationships, by which i mean "not negotiated at all & really horrible for a participating party", hello trashcan my old friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 17:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6815416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhysgore/pseuds/rhysgore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"[All] shall have their part in the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone: which is the second death."</p><p>-</p><p>Jack teaches a lesson in gratitude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the eyes have it

**Author's Note:**

> hi. it's been too long.
> 
> summary quote is from revelations 21:8 because im pretentious. also, PLEASE heed the warnings!! this is not a particularly healthy or happy fic, & if anything mentioned therein is disagreeable to you, it's not for you.

After months of deliberation, thinking about whether or not he should let Handsome Jack back into the world, Rhys gives up on trying to be a bigger, better person. As president, as CEO, he has the resources to spare, and if he doesn’t have the time, well, that’s what delegation is for. He devotes his time instead to constructing a new shell for the man, biological material expertly meshed with metal, a feat of science and engineering that Rhys, if he’s being modest, is damned proud of. 

It looks almost exactly like Jack, with the exception of the blank lifelessness in the eyes, and the port on his head, identical to Rhys’, where the drive with all the info that made Jack  _ Jack  _ was to be plugged in. It's a goddamn scientific marvel, a work of art unto itself, and Rhys has to tamp down on smug self-satisfaction as he waits for the personality program to be uploaded. A fucking miracle, if he's being completely honest.

The very first thing Jack does to reward Rhys for his miracle is to put his eye out.

 

* * *

Jack calls it “quid pro quo”, but as he tightens Rhys’ restraints in the operating chair, Rhys can't exactly bring himself to care about the technical terms for the position he’s in right now.

“What do you- Jack, you were  _ dead,  _ and I brought you  _ back, _ I don’t-” Jack cuts him off with a single noise, eyes flashing.

“You couldn’t do it right away though, could you?” His voice is soft, but there’s an edge to it, a cold steel line of rage threading through his every word. A quiet, nearly tranquil fury that Rhys fears more than any of the times Jack had shouted at him. “Had to wait for it until it was  _ convenient _ for you, didn’t you?”

“Nn-” He squirms in place as Jack bares his forearm, squeezing near his elbow. When a vein becomes visible, dark blue against the paleness of his skin, Jack slides the needle into it with a practiced ease. His hands are rough as he pushes down on the plunger and removes it, as he wipes away the tiny drop of blood that wells up. “What did you just give me?”

Jack smiles, as cold and clinical as his hands. “Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. It’s just to keep you still while I work. Wouldn’t want you hurting yourself, now.”

Rhys is about to reply when he feels ice in his veins, sliding up his arms, down his legs, freezing him to the core. All of the sudden, he can’t control his body, can’t even get his fingers to move the way he wants. His head slumps to the side, mouth slack and open, drooling on his shirt. Rhys’ eyes jump over to Jack.

_ Please don’t do this,  _ he hopes he’s communicating.  _ Whatever you’re going to do, please. I wanted you back, I did, it’s not just for me, _ please.

Regardless of whether Jack understands his pleading, he doesn’t listen, and the next thing Rhys sees is him turning around, picking some sort of strange, black wire contraption off of a nearby table. Rhys doesn’t know what it is, and can’t ask, but he knows one thing for certain- he wants it nowhere near him.

He tries to shake his head  _ no,  _ but all he manages is a half-hearted flop that makes Jack laugh cruelly.

“Gotta say, it’s a shame that I’m not gonna be able to hear you beg. I mean, you got to hear  _ me  _ beg, kiddo. You heard me beg and you  _ ignored it.”  _ Jack steps closer, grabs a handful of Rhys’ hair, and callously pulls him upright. “I wanted to show you how that feels. How it feels to trust someone, and then have them turn around and  _ sell you out.” _

_ I didn’t sell you out,  _ Rhys wants to say. He can’t. He can only stare and drool as Jack places what seems like a neck brace and cage around his head. It keeps his head upright as Jack pulls his upper eyelid away from his right eye, the one that’s still entirely organic. It keeps him upright as Jack hooks wires from the cage into his eyelid, keeping it frozen open. Jack does the same thing for the lower lid, and stands back.

Jack steps back, a look on his face like he’s  _ admiring his handiwork.  _

“I can’t say I’m not flattered, honestly, you carrying a torch for me and all. I appreciate it. I really do. And this body is nice.” He runs a hand through his hair, emphasizing the point. Rhys feels tears welling up, blurring his vision. His breathing is coming in harsh, shaky pants that fuzz his vision out at the edges. “But I’m still going to cut your eye out, because you need to be taught a damn lesson in sooo many things, cupcake. Humility. Loyalty. Knowing your  _ place.  _ What it felt like to be me, trapped and betrayed by some stupid  _ upstart-”  _

His fist slams down on the table next to him, and Rhys feels his heart flutter, the panic that’s taken far too long to set in.  _ I’m going to cut your eye out.  _

He suddenly feels very, very stupid. Too little, too late. The tears in his eye might just be a natural response to it being held open for too long, or he might be crying. Rhys honestly can’t tell. Saliva leaks out of his open mouth, dripping down his chin onto his neck. 

It was such a stupid,  _ stupid  _ idea to bring Jack back. A stupid idea brought on by loneliness and the need to be appreciated and overconfidence in his ability to bring someone back from the dead. It was a stupid idea to even keep his old eye, instead of crushing it beneath his feet, or tossing it into a lake.

When Jack approaches him again, he’s holding a small metal tray, a pair of surgical scissors, and what looks like a melon baller. His hands are covered by latex gloves, and the look on his face is a lopsided, cruel grin.

“Relax, babe. It’ll be over before you know it, and I promise I’ll take care of you afterwards. Like you took care of me.” His voice is soft, now, no trace of anger in it, and it's horrifying. Horrifying that Jack thinks he’s justified, that he's dispensing out some sort of  _ justice.  _ And yet…

Vulnerable and afraid, Rhys takes comfort in any bit of softness he can latch on to. If he could speak, he would beg Jack to keep talking to him. Talk him through it. He makes a strangled sound in his throat, and hopes.

“You like that, huh? Yeah, I bet. Just hold still for a little while longer, it’ll all be over soon. I’d say you could hold my hand, but…” Jack glances down to where Rhys’ own hands are limp, fingers twitching slightly on the arms of the chair. “Yeah. It’ll just be a second, and then we’ll be all _ even steven.”  _ Jack keeps talking, at once terrifying and comforting, and one hand reaches out to stroke Rhys’ face softly while the other brings the melon baller closer.

When it first touches him, Rhys feels nothing except the slight coldness of the metal. Then, Jack digs it into the socket, rending the tender, squishy flesh of his eyeball away from the bone underneath, tearing through until he reaches firm muscle. It’s precise, and with every slight movement, Rhys feels like his skull is being split. A scream works its way up through his throat, but Rhys can’t vocalize it besides a strangled-sounding gargle. There’s a hot wetness on his cheek, and his vision- it hurts to  _ see, _ but he can’t stop it.

And Jack fucking  _ laughs.  _ “It’s a good thing I like you, cupcake, even if you did stab me in the back first chance you got. If I didn’t, well. There are some bandits that know firsthand the pleasure of having a dirty spoon shoved right in there, y’know?” His hand is on Rhys’ cheek, wiping away the blood and the tears. “C’mon, we’re halfway there. Yeah, there’s my good boy.”

Rhys feels it the exact moment his eye pops loose, dangling wetly on his cheek. He gives an ugly, hiccupping sob- half of the world has gone dark already, the feed from his ECHOeye the only thing allowing him to see Jack reaching for the surgical scissors and metal tray. How he hasn’t passed out already is beyond him, but he wouldn’t put it past it being a side effect of the drug cocktail Jack had slipped him.

With the same surgical precision he’d already demonstrated, Jack snips each of the six muscles holding Rhys’ eye in place, and cuts through the optic nerve. With a soft  _ plop,  _ Rhys’ eye lands on the metal tray, and Jack raises it to the other side of his face so Rhys can see.

“Now, that wasn’t that hard, was it?” Jack asks, half mocking, half sincere.

Due to either the blood loss, or the shock, or just the excruciating, headsplitting pain he’s in, Rhys faints immediately.

 

* * *

When he wakes up, his head is muddled with what must be a fuckton of pain medications, and the entire right side of the world is in darkness. Rhys is lying in what appears to be some sort of hospital bed- clean white linens and the scent of lavender and a constant  _ beep, beep, beep  _ that reminds him yes, he’s still alive, still breathing. For now.

“Hey, look who’s up!” Rhys flinches away from the sound of Jack’s voice, which reverberates through his skull and makes it feel like his brain is coming out of his ears. He turns around, and sees the genuine article sitting by his bedside. “You really bounced back, champ. The doctors say you’ll be released into my custody within a day or two, and even if that wasn’t the case, they can’t prevent me from taking ya. I own this place.”

Rhys tries to say something, but ends up coughing instead. Each cough sends a dull throb through his head. Jack helpfully passes him the glass of water that was sitting on his bedside table, and Rhys takes it gratefully. His throat is raw and scratchy with disuse.

After a few gulps, he feels okay enough to speak. “Fuck you.”

Jack snorts. “Watch your damn language, kiddo. Though since it clearly means you’re up and raring to go, I can forgive you this once.” 

He reaches out a hand, gently stroking Rhys’ face with the back of it. Rhys’ eye narrows slightly, but he doesn’t move away, even when Jack’s thumb brushes the bandages covering his empty right eye socket.

“We’re even now,” Jack murmurs. “I’ve forgiven you for aaaaall that shit you pulled, cutting me out of your head and everything. I’d say don’t do that again, but…” He smiles, gesturing vaguely to his body, flesh and metal woven together by Rhys’ hands. “Yeah. Not really seeing that as being an issue.”

Rhys nearly laughs.  _ You’ve forgiven _ me? he wants to snap, but the medication and the deep-bone feeling of exhaustion and the almost unbearable softness of Jack’s hand on him prevents it.

The touch is gentle, Jack’s tone is gentle as he spells out what’s going to happen. “You’re gonna be here another day. Then, you’re coming with me. Gonna live with me for a while, so I can make sure you don’t get an infection or kill yourself or whatever. I’ve got a job lined up for you and everything. It’s cushy, pays pretty well, you’ll be near me. Everyone wins.” He’s still stroking Rhys’ face, fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone. “I’ll treat you real nice, kiddo. You’ll see.”

 

* * *

Rhys goes back to work. Everything’s new now that Jack’s returned, and it was difficult to adjust at first, but hell, it’s work. The pay’s good even if he doesn’t really need it, and even though it’s more secretarial than anything, he can’t bring himself to complain. Checking reports, typing memos, it’s dull, but it’s the exact type of dull that keeps his mind busy, keeps the smart, sensible part of his brain that’s screaming at him to  _ run _ quiet.

He doesn’t run. He keeps working, until Jack approaches him from behind, and slides two large, warm hands down his sides to rest at the flare of his hips.

“Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” He jokes, and Rhys rolls his eye. He hasn’t gotten an ECHO implant to replace the missing one. Jack won’t let him, mostly due to what Rhys assumes is a need to mark his territory. It’s fine. His other eye is good enough on its own. He wears a patch over the hole, and Jack teases him about looking like a pirate. “C’mon, you’ve been sitting at your goddamn desk all day, your ass has gotta be super sore. Let’s have some  _ fun.” _

“I’m trying to file these mining output reports,” Rhys mumbles. “You know, I have an  _ actual job, _ and it  _ actually _ affects your company.” 

Jack makes a noise halfway between a huff of irritation and flatulence. “Yeah, whatever. You can take a break for a few minutes. It’s not like the reports are gonna magically vanish.” His hands continue their journey up and down Rhys’ sides. The touch is disquieting, but also grounding, and the bizarre feeling he gets from the contradiction is what makes Rhys sigh quietly, and spin around in his swivel chair.

“That’s more like it, sweetheart.” Jack smiles wolfishly as Rhys slips out of the chair onto his knees, already feeling up Jack’s thighs. The man is already hard, and when Rhys unbuckles Jack’s belt, his lips twitch upwards.

“Do you  _ ever  _ wear underwear?” He asks, eyebrow quirking.

“Not so long as I know there are still Hyperion secretaries that put out during the workday,” Jack replies. Rhys smirks in honest now, reaching up with his flesh hand to cup Jack’s balls, and he feels strong fingers thread through his hair. But when he moves to take Jack’s cock into his mouth, he’s held back.

Rhys looks up, frowning, and in response, Jack brushes his other hand across Rhys’ face, pushing a single finger underneath the eyepatch. He tugs on it, pulling it up, exposing the hole underneath.

All at once, any good feeling Rhys has vanishes. His smirk fades, and his own erection flags. So it’s going to be like that.

“Jack, please,” he tries. “Can’t we just- can’t I just suck you off? Or-” His breath comes short and shuddering.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Jack says, clucking his tongue. “C’mon, you’re a big boy, you can handle it. Right?” He pushes Rhys’ head down a hair further, rubs the leaking head of his cock on Rhys’ cheek.  _ “Right?” _

_ It’s not that I can’t handle it, _ Rhys wants to say.  _ It’s disgusting, and it hurts, and-  _ He can think of a million reasons to say _ no, _ but all Jack sees is the single, all-important reason to say  _ yes.  _ Because Jack wants it.

“I-I can handle it,” he chokes out, face burning. Jack beams at him, petting his hair, and Rhys leans into the touch.

“Good boy. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Jack,” Rhys mumbles. Jack’s smile widens even further, and he slowly slides his cock into Rhys’ hollow eye socket.

No matter how many times they do this, the feeling is still completely alien to Rhys. He feels the slide of flesh on the sensitive skin surrounding his socket, a painful stretch, and the dull pressure of Jack’s cock hitting the bone behind where his eyes would normally sit, but nothing in between. The cavity isn’t actually that deep, and Rhys has concluded that this must be some sort of power thing for Jack, rather than a purely physical thing.

Jack enjoys himself without fail every time, though, breathing hard and making small noises of pleasure as he fucks shallowly. “Just stay- right- there-” he grits out, pulling Rhys’ hair to make sure he’s still, as if Rhys had any plans or means to move. Rhys sits there, still and quiet, even as Jack pulls out and comes, messily, all over his face.

He stands, and pulls his eyepatch back on, smearing semen across his cheek in the process. Jack laughs at him as he does, and Rhys tries to ignore it. Jack reaches forwards, cups him through his pants, but Rhys bats his hand away, disinterested. Jack shrugs, and tucks himself back into his pants.

“Maybe next time, huh pumpkin?” He turns to leave, waving over his shoulder at Rhys as he walks out the door back into his office.

 

Wiping off his face, Rhys sits down, and gets back to work.

**Author's Note:**

> me, someone who has a persistent phobia of eye trauma: lets write a fic all about graphic eye trauma. that sounds like a good idea.
> 
> find me on tumblr, living up to my url @rhysgore
> 
> also, @rhackrubbish drew some [beautiful art](http://rhackrubbishh.tumblr.com/post/146386414842/i-just-really-really-really-like-rhysgores) for this fic!! check it out!!


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